The Lioness's Ballade
by Cherry Fingertips
Summary: There is a woman who lives down the stairs and plays classical music when she works. She is no one of note and exceedingly dull when she isn't being nosy and curious or blaring her music too loudly. She asks too many questions and bakes too many biscuits and her novels are absolutely terrible. Sherlock cannot lie though-he enjoys when she plays Stravinsky. SH/OC


**_Author's Note:_**

_Hello! Thank you for taking time to read this new fic of mine. So far it has been a labor of love-with lots of laboring involved! This fic is based on a dream I had a few months ago. It was pretty interesting but I never thought I'd actually sit down and turn it into a whole story, especially since I would consider myself a pretty hardcore Sherlolly fan. Regardless, here we are. I hope you enjoy it half as much as I have enjoyed writing it!_

_Thank you to my beta, Ivory Winter! She has been totally awesome and very helpful! She also writes Sherlock fics so go check out her stuff as well!_

_Just as a heads up, this fic is the first part in a multi-fic series. It will probably consist of two main fics with some shorter ficlets in-between. This storyline takes place in between Season 1 and Season 2. The second one will pick up after the end of Season 2. I will be playing around with time so I apologize in the future if certain events do not line up perfectly with the shows timeline. _

_Disclaimer: I own nothing except for Wen Cleary and what ever OCs pop up. Sherlock and anything belonging to his world belong to Moffat and his crew or the Conan Doyle cannon. All music mentioned belongs to its respective composers. This disclaimer applies for all future chapters._

**The Lioness's Ballade #3 in A Flat**

**or**

**The Story of Wen Cleary in the 3rd Flat**

**Prologue:**

There were several things Wen Cleary knew very well. She knew who she was, though it had taken her years to figure that out. She knew that her father had been the biggest asshole the world had ever thrown at her—that her mother had been sweet but too soft. She knew that her brother was the closest thing she had to real support in her family.

She knew that cigarette smoke made her gag. She knew her next book would sell well, if she ever got around to finishing it. She knew Sherlock would tear it apart four more times before she got there. She knew her brother was due to call on the fifth to check up on her. She knew John reminded her of her brother. She knew Sherlock reminded her of a child.

She knew that there were frogs laying eggs in the pots of her orchards and also knew she was too scared of the slimy things to do anything about it. She knew Sherlock had hid some petri dishes in her fridge though she didn't know what was in them.

She knew what she wanted out of life.

She knew what she would get.

She knew who she loved.

There were frightfully few people who fell into that last category. She loved her mother, as absent minded as she was. She loved her brother in the way she loved the steady ground beneath her feet. She loved Mrs. Hudson in the way she had loved her grandmother. She loved Molly like the sister she had wished she had. John was a given and Sherlock… Well, she didn't want to deal with that now. She loved them all though, her old family and her new one.

But there was one person who meant more to her.

Wen Cleary cocked the gun in her hand. It was dark in the hallway. Light streamed in from open doors. Not the artificial light of an abandoned office building but moonlight, most likely from the shattered windows. Moonlight that fell to the ground like beams of stardust and magic, illuminating her way. Wen shook her head. The mind of a writer always made the most mundane things magical. She'd have to remember that though, and use it the next time she sat down to write. If she got out of here, she reminded herself. She couldn't get too ahead of herself. No counting chickens before they hatch and all that. Still, it was a nice description. Even if Sherlock would think it was mindless drivel that pandered to her readers' want of fluffy, escapist fiction. And he would, if she ever wrote it and he ever read it.

The door at the end of the hallway was open but pitch black, no moonlight-like-stardust streaming through, just darkness, plain and heavy. But she knew that was where he was waiting—knew it because of the classical music she could hear from inside, light and airy and upbeat, making the whole situation all the more eerie.

Crazy men. Fucking crazy men. Like she bloody well deserved this. Between all the fucked up men in her life she was going to go crazy herself. Her father, Him, and Sher—

There was a clatter, like someone throwing a set of silverware onto a tile floor. It echoed around her and she felt a chill go up her spine. Bugger.

After the last peals of it finally faded, she started forward again, gun held in both hands in front of her. She felt her pocket vibrate and heard the tell-tale whirr of her mobile, normally hard to make out but magnified in the silence, as if it was bouncing off the white walls. Fuck. If it was half as loud as it seemed to her, then they could hear it. What did it matter though, really? He had to know she was here. Hopefully they both did.

Plunging a hand into her pocket she tucked the gun under her arm before removing the battery. She wasn't surprised at who had called. It was the fifth time he'd tried since she left, the fifth call amongst numerous texts. She hadn't answered any of it. She breathed deeply through her nose, trying to calm the guilt that had made her chest tight as the skin of a drum. She'd gotten them too involved already. Not that they weren't involved in their own way but this was her problem. Her battle. They needed to bugger off and not mess everything up. Which they would. Of course.

She pocketed her now useless phone and continued forward. As she drew closer to the door, the music became sharper, clearer—louder.

She took a deep breath and tried to fight down the panic building in her throat. It would do her no good to panic. Isn't that what she always wrote? Isn't that how she described her protagonists? Calm and cool, creeping into battle with a gun and a plan? But she didn't have a plan. Part of her wished she hadn't been a fool and decided to do this on her own; whenever she went out with the boys she relied on Sherlock to have the plan and give the orders and on John to tell her how to keep herself from getting killed.

She couldn't rely on anyone else now. But, she had no idea what she was walking into the most dangerous situation of her life with little more than a wing and a prayer and the determination that she could make it through sheer will alone.

She closed her eyes, sliding up to the left side of the door, gun held low.

She took another deep breath before she opened her eyes and turned, her body in the doorway, the gun held before her.

The person she loved most was waiting for her—and she would do anything to get him back.

**Chapter One - The Staccato Welcome**

The renovation of 221C was perhaps the stupidest thing Mrs. Hudson had ever done. Sherlock more than over paid her for his flat, ensuring that her financial needs were covered and the third flat remained unnecessary for that reason. He hadn't realized, at the time, what a brilliant move that was when he had moved in. The existence of 221C hovered wonderfully low on his radar of things that mattered. So low in fact that most of the time he forgot it existed. If he registered the door in the hall it was only if something had changed about it. New coat of paint. Scratch from the delivery man bringing in a large package. The things he usually noticed before casting it off as useless information.

The most he really thought about 221C was in conjunction with his thoughts about Moriarty. The dank, dreary flat had been home to his first game with him—Carl Power's shoes sitting before the fireplace. But beyond its function as a place (which was only that Moriarty had picked something so close to home, as the saying went, to show his power and assert himself and all that pointless strutting), Sherlock had no interest in it.

And, if people listened to Sherlock, the current state of affairs would never have happened.  
If Mrs. Hudson had listened to Sherlock and not worked herself up into a tiz about the fact that a criminal genius had infiltrated her apartment (not surprising when one considered the absolute lack of security. Old fashioned locks, Mrs. Hudson? Really? How could you not have seen this coming with Sherlock Holmes living in the flat above?) and blown up a building down the street. Now it was all "I need a new security system!" and "sensors on the windows" and "surveillance in the hallways," which was rather pointless since he had told her over twenty times that Mycroft had the whole place under surveillance like a bloody prison. But no, she wouldn't listen.

She also wouldn't listen when he tried to tell her that Moriarty would never pull the same stunt twice. He had already played that card and now he was done and everyone knew he could do it so why did he need to do it again? To which she repeatedly replied "But Sherlock! He isn't the only insane man you've upset!" before slamming the door in his face as she was wont to do at 2am.

The upped security had filled the building with bumbling fools who tramped around like elephants on a bloody stampede. They were such a distraction when all he wanted to do was think. And then they had the nerve to ask him to stop playing his violin when he had been trying to drown them out.

That hadn't been the worst of it really. Sherlock supposed he could have lived with it if it had all stopped right there but it hadn't.

The security "renovation" had cost more than a number of pretty pennies and the monthly security service raised Mrs. Hudson's bills by quite a bit—hopefully only not some ungodly amount if she had any sort of mind (She never told Sherlock the details of her bills but he had taken to breaking into her apartment when he was bored and riffling through her bills, leaving sticky notes detailing where she was grossly over paying or wasting money—like on that fudge icecream she bought every month when she was feeling bad for herself but threw away because god forbid it would fall on her thighs). Now all these new costs had to be paid for so it was all "I might as well get the basement flat done up" and "The new security system will be a great selling feature" and "Really, Sherlock, what does it matter if I rent the flat out? Besides, I'd like to have another woman around."

Good God. She didn't just want to invade Sherlock's space with anyone…but a woman—Some other female that she could cluck about with while making tea and biscuits and then come knocking on his door and offering him some.

It all got even worse when the renovations had been done with and she started having people in to look at the place.

"Oh Sherlock, glad I could catch you!" she said one day as he stalked home from finishing up a case with Lestrade. "This is Freya. She's looking at the basement."

Sherlock had turned on a heel and zoomed in on the girl.

"Too fat," he said after a moment, directing his statement to Mrs. Hudson. "Oh yes, she is on a diet, judging by her new jeans. A slim fit that she recently purchased and just barely gets into but is hoping in a few weeks will fit her better." He turned and looked down her purse, one of those over the shoulder pouch-type numbers. "Which is corroborated by the low-fat-low-calorie-diet friendly shake she is going to supplement her next meal with. Freya, didn't they ever tell you that fad diets don't work?" He tsked at the girl before continuing. "You're recently out of uni. Masters, was it? Judging by the amount of Hemmingway in your bag, I'd say literature."

He paused as she gripped her bag. He was getting there. Good. Perfect. The girl was shaking.

"American literature. Neat nails, painted a dull pink and cut short. Aaah. You are training to be a teacher. Young children. Most likely lower primary school because as much as you love what you've spent the past few years paying for in school you have no confidence in yourself to talk about and analyze actual literature to students any older than the age of six. Most likely looking at St. Gregory's down the road which is why you are looking at this flat."

He watched tears stream down the girl's face as Mrs. Hudson sputtered and put a hand on Freya's shoulder.

"Lovely to meet you, Freya. Really. An absolute pleasure. Hope you enjoy the flat. Did Mrs. Hudson tell you about the maniac murder who blew up the building next door and broke in? Nothing to worry about now though. Mrs. Hudson did a bang up job with the new security system. Wonderful. Now it's protected against even the most vicious of five year olds."

He hadn't meant to—hadn't been planning on actively sabotaging Mrs. Hudson's quest but after his first look at the sad excuse for a human, he knew he had to act. Had to keep her out of his space. God knows what kind of distraction she would be. She'd looked as if she had all the grace of a three-legged hippo. He could just imagine her tromping around the stairs, breaking his concentration with every thundering step to be produced by those thunderous thighs. It just could not be allowed to happen.

After her it was Kerry, a bird-like woman who came waltzing in with a high pitched voice like some nightmare out of a child's cartoon and spoke as if everyone in the near vicinity was deaf. He didn't even need to really look at her to decide that it wouldn't work and she was quickly dealt with by a pointed comment about her recent break up with her fiancé who had obviously cheated on her (no doubt annoyed by her voice and talon like fingers) which was obvious really, due to the fact that she still had the engagement ring but now wore it on her right hand instead of her left (where the tan line still told its tale).

Then there had been Mark. Described to Sherlock as a "lovely man with a great disposition. Quiet as a mouse" but what Mrs. Hudson failed to mention was that he was gayer than a rainbow armband, single, and had a disposition that favored a riding crop (Sherlock was very familiar with those calluses). He might be quiet as a mouse but his lovers wouldn't be.

"Really Mrs. Hudson?" he had asked as she tried shuffling Mark out of door as quickly as possible. "A dominator? Whatever baking you had fantasized about with your lovely new resident, I wouldn't trust his rolling pin."

He had smiled as sweetly as he could fake before returning to the comfort of 221B. Mrs. Hudson was being incredibly difficult. After that pleasant encounter there had been three more she had tried to smuggle in when she thought he would be out of the flat but he'd been monitoring her phone calls and managed to be present for each delightful prospective renter.

He had turned a grand total of eight potential neighbors off the flat, two of which had followed John's blog and considered themselves "big fans" of his work while ogling his backside. For those offenses alone he saw it fit to get them out as quickly as possible.

All in all, it had seemed to be going pretty well, despite John's insistence that he was being rude and thoughtless and a few other terms that Sherlock couldn't be bothered to remember. Besides, John couldn't be fully trusted in this matter as he was currently between girlfriends and six of the eight prospective neighbors had been his preferred body type.

Of course, then the proverbial wrench had to be thrown into the proverbial machine. The wrench being a case, courtesy of Lestrade. Sherlock had skulked about the flat for nearly a week and a half driving off people and driving himself (and John) crazy with boredom in between harrowing people. When they got the call from Lestrade about the case, (a simple one really. Much simpler in the end than he had realized in the beginning but he always had to miss something and it turned out that the yellow paper clips were much more important than he had originally deduced.) he had jumped at the chance for a distraction. This one in particular taking them to Cardiff and lasting nearly four days.

During those blessed four days of the chase, he had totally forgotten about 221C and the potential threat it presented with its new marble counter tops and stainless steel what not. It was not until returning, haggard and slightly torn up, to Bakers St. that the flat once again returned to his attention. And by then, well, one could say it was too late but where death wasn't involved, it was never really too late was it?

Sherlock paced before the fireplace, his violin held under his chin as his bow arm pulled sharp notes from the instrument.

"Sherlock, for God's sake," John said from the table, his laptop in front of him, typing up a draft of the past case, "cleverly" titled The Insignificance of Yellow. "Burning skid marks into the rug isn't going to make the girl move out."

Because that was the issue now. While they'd been gone Mrs. Hudson found the first girl who'd walk in the door and moved her in and signed contract after contract ensuring she was not to be moved for six months. Six months! He dramatically brought the bow down on his violin sending a screeching noise into the air before collapsing onto the couch.

"You haven't even met her, Sherlock." John looked up from his laptop screen. "She could be pleasant."

Sherlock scoffed loudly.

"Oh, alright. She could be inoffensive," he continued while Sherlock lay down with more force than necessary on the couch before tucking his violin under his chin and playing across his chest. "She could even be boring."

Sherlock stopped and sent a pointed look John's way.

"Her bed spread is a blue and white quilt covered in pink little cherry blossoms." It was all the explanation any sane person should need to understand the gravity of the situation.

John stared at him blankly. After a moment he went back to his laptop screen. "Yeah. Got nothing." He looked back up suddenly. "Wait… You broke in—Never mind. Don't tell me. I don't want to know."

"Her bed spread is blue, white, and pink. Her lampshade is yellow. Her bed is a twenty year old wooden piece with ornate carvings of flowers and trees along the frame. She's got three jewelry boxes. Two plain, sleek ones that she never uses and one ornate painted-gilded one that keeps all her favorite pieces. Her dresser is the simplest design next to nailing six pieces of wood together and tucking a few books underneath for legs. No pictures of real people on the walls. Mainly artwork. Some old classical pieces, some newer more modern pieces. Two of which feature cherry blossom trees. She's got nineteen little statues and boxes in the antique cupboard she is using as an entertainment center. A collection of antique ladies fans—European and Asian in background. Fourteen bottles of nail polish in widely varying colors, only three of which have been used—a pink, a nude, and a pastel blue called "Where's My Chauffeur". Four picture frames of pictures she's taken of places she's traveled. Six with her and a tall male. Husband? Not unless they are living separately which I highly doubt—mainly due to the lack of condoms or lingerie and her highly feminine and personalized interior design—no room in her décor for a man, never mind her life. That takes care of boyfriend. Too young for a father. Male friend? Unless he's gay, I doubt it. Judging by the similar cheek bones though, brother is a much better match up. No pictures of the father but two of her mother. Either estranged from the father or she never knew him. So that's 8 pictures of the family, not too many implying she isn't obsessively close but not too little to imply no relationship. Two Persians rugs, four afghans and throws draped across chairs and her forest green couch and love seat. Kitchen is filled but not over flowing. Five all-clad pots she uses for daily cooking, one cast iron she doesn't use because it is too big for one person. A small set of plates and knives and forks implying she's been alone for a while. She's changed the light bulbs from the bright white ones Mrs. Hudson put in during the renovation to warm yellow ones."

He stopped and plucked a sour note from his violin. John's head was in his hands. Sherlock could just imagine the look of disbelief on his face.

"So?" he said after a moment, lowering his hands. "She's got a thing for cherry blossoms and a couple of throw blankets. She sounds like a normal woman."

Sherlock sat up, plucking a few more discordant notes to punctuate the movement.

"She's eclectic! The antique and kitchy furniture next to the modern sleek pieces? She's got no unifying theme or color scheme to her décor except perhaps "homey" and "warm" if you were going to stretch for adjectives for it. Books from analytical studies on languages to a couple of erotic romances stashed under her bed with some fantasy thrown in between. She's eclectic! And the worst mismatched sort of eclectic. She's probably bubblier than her ginger lemon kitchen soap and one of those chatter boxes who wants to tell you about the ornamental rug she bought on her trip to Japan four years ago like it happened yesterday."

"Sherlock," John interjected while Sherlock took a breath. "What are you, between the skull, the antique violin and the body parts in the fridge, yeah? That all seems pretty eclectic to me."

"Oh, John. You are missing the most important fact. I've been here awhile. I've had time to throw my things everywhere and hide things in the fridge. She's been here… what, three days?"

"And?" John asked, clearly exasperated.

"There is not a single box. Strange, after just moving in, isn't it? Normally it takes a few weeks to unpack everything, never mind organizing it all in away that looks lived in and personal. She's done it in less than three days. Her books are everywhere, tucked in shelves, on the coffee table. A couple left open on her desk. She's invasive. Ten minutes and she's become your best friend and told you half her life story. Her home is comfortable and she's probably comfortable. Loose bohemian skirts with beaded flats and loose tops in bright colors. Not threatening. Not too over the top. Unique but not anything you've never seen before. She's probably already had Mrs. Hudson over for dinner to talk about how the hallway is too drab and how a good coat of blue paint would brighten up the whole place. Most likelyplays the radio while she cleans."

Sherlock shuddered. This was terrible. He should have taken Too-Fat-Freya. At least she would have minded her own business. As Sherlock looked over the other previous choices that he had run off, trying to see if somewhere along the line there was one that would have been even a smidge more ideal than the one they were currently left with, John looked up again from his computer screen.

"Hang on, when the hell did you get a chance to go poking around the girl's bloody apartment? We've been back barely three hours."

Sherlock gave John a withering look.

"While you were showering. Mrs. Hudson said she had left for the grocery store a few minutes before we arrived and as I was then unaware of how long it would take her to finish her shopping, I thought it prudent to do so as soon as possible."

"I was in the shower barely eight minutes. You looked under her bed and counted her how many pots she had?"

"Well, I was being quick about it. By the time I got to her cupboard and fridge, though, I realized she was low on almost everything and it was likely to be a rather large shop. So I didn't need to rush but by then I'd seen everything I needed."

"You are insane," John said, shaking his head and shutting his laptop. "Cuppa?"

"No thank you, John." Sherlock looked towards the door of their flat. "I'm in no mood for tea."

"Suit yourself." The shorter man got up and headed toward the kitchen just as Sherlock heard the front door of Baker Street open. "That the door?"

"Of course it is the door!" Sherlock said, sitting up again. "What else would it be?"

"Must be her then. Good, I can ask her over for tea. Do we have any biscuits left?"

"Don't bother," Sherlock said.

"With the biscuits? Well, we don't need them but it would be nice—"

"Not the biscuits. Please John, don't be slow. Don't bother asking her." Sherlock noted the delay in the front door closing. She'd brought up all her groceries at once and was maneuvering herself through the door. He couldn't hear the rustle of plastic nor the crinkle of paper bags. Good God. She was one of those women who brought their own reusable bags in. Probably some bright colors with a tree across the front. Ah. An environmentalist. Or, perhaps, one of those God forsaken people who didn't care about the environment but went along with it because the bags were just "too cute" and it was all the rage. He shuddered internally. He heard her travel down the stairs to the basement flat.

"Why not?" John said, bringing Sherlock back to the conversation.

"She's going to come up."

"Sherlock, you can't spend less than eight minutes in a girl's apartment scratching through her knickers and dust collectors and then 'deduce' that she is going to waltz up to our flat this very minute and tell us about her…what was it? Trip to Japan."

Sherlock massaged his temples. "John, I asked you not be slow. It's exhausting. She's coming because she can't get into her flat."

There it was. She was putting all her bags down. He could hear the gentle thumps. No doubt to figure out why it wasn't working.

"What? For Christ's sake, what did you do?"

"I had to change the password on her alarm system. I'm almost positive now that it was the Japanese word for "Cherry Blossom" but at the time I had no choice but to use the override code I found in Mrs. Hudson's jewelry box. It is rejecting her code. She can't get in. She'll look for Mrs. Hudson who is out then will see the light on in our flat and—"

There was a knock on the door. It was quick and simple. Rap-Rap. It wasn't the social visit she'd been planning which probably would have been punctuated by a more rhythmic, slow knock (and accompanied with some baked goods judging by the baking dishes she had, most of which were well used). Not doubt Mrs. Hudson had warned her about the residents of 221B—had warned her about him in particular.

"Glad I put the kettle on. Alright then, let's meet Ms. Eclectic." John strode out of the kitchen with purpose. "And Sherlock?"

John paused at the door, looking at him.

"Yes, what is it?" he said after John didn't continue on his own.

"Don't be an arse. At least… don't be as much of an arse as you usually are."

Sherlock smiled cloyingly before making his face impassive. Taking that as an answer, John opened the door.

* * *

The renovation of 221C should have been the one of the greatest ideas Mrs. Hudson ever had. It had all come out of her panic with the whole Moriarty adventure: A mad man had broken in and started Sherlock on the most intense series of puzzles. He'd also blown up the building next door and strapped helpless people to kilos of symtax (including John). It had all been rather unpleasant so John couldn't blame her for her panic in the least. She'd gone a bit crazy with the upped the security, which Baker Street had needed especially with Sherlock in the building. John, realistically, didn't expect her new alarms and cameras to do much in the face of foes like Moriarty but the regular sort would be kept at bay should they try anything. Which, come to think of it, never actually happened. Probably had something to do with Sherlock and his homeless network but John never asked for specifics. Really though, the new security system was just a little bonus with what should have been Mrs. Hudson's absolutely brilliant idea:

A new tenant. Female new tenant. Yes, that would have done John quite nicely.

Not that he was being pervy or anything. He'd just broken up with Sara and God knew he had been enjoying that relationship and he was more than a bit upset it was over. It might be nice though, to have a new neighbor to chat with when Sherlock was in one of his moods. Someone to walk out of the flat and share a hullo with and a quick "Yeah, he's in-between cases," and receive a knowing and sympathetic smile. Not that Mrs. Hudson didn't share John's sentiments but she took everything Sherlock did with a grain of salt and a shrug before moving on with her day. But to have someone he could vent to about it and maybe grab a drink with and share complaints would be nice.

"He borrowed my laptop yesterday for nine hours. Searched the whole bloody flat for it. Found him using it up at yours round 10 o clock," the neighbor (female would be nice but that Mark bloke had seemed of a decent sort) would say.

"Yeah, sorry 'bout that. Happened to me all the time. He's recently become fascinated with the rate at which a flesh eating bacteria can strip the flesh off bones when ingested through the mouth. I've got four dead and decomposing rats in my cooler."

She (or he) would sigh and pour him another drink and so on. That was all. That was all he wanted. Another normal person in his life to help balance out the bonkers that was Sherlock. And maybe if it was a woman, a good shag a few times wouldn't hurt anyone.

It all sounded good.

Except Sherlock had to be his usual prick self and bugger everything up. Sure, Freya had been a bit on the heavy side and Sherlock was positive Mark had been a dominator who'd thought John's bum looked good (which was flattering but between the misconceptions people already had about him and Sherlock, he didn't need to add fuel to that fire, thank you) but the other ones… well, they'd all had been quite pleasant and beyond Kerry's odd voice, generally normal.

Losses all round.

Which was fine. Really, it was. John really wasn't being pervy about this. More than anything he just wished someone would move in. Anyone. So Sherlock could get over himself and stop trying to drive John insane with his angry-violin playing.

Which was why when Lestrade called with the yellow paper clip case, John had told Mrs. Hudson to grab the first girl that walked in the door and get her completely moved in, contract signed the minute they were out the door. The 'completely moved' in bit had been an exaggeration at the time but they ended up being gone for a few days and when they returned, it was to a quite pleased Mrs. Hudson who informed them that a lovely woman had moved in to 221C and Sherlock could be as nasty as he wanted because it wouldn't do him any good.

Which of course meant Sherlock was in a none too pleasant mood. Which meant more of the bloody violin.

But that was alright. In fact, everything was tickety-boo. Fantastic, really.

Sherlock had put the violin down for the first time in nearly two hours to pick up the four day old newspaper on the table and pretend to read it and John was holding their opened door staring at their new neighbor from down the stairs. Yep, everything was fine.

She was taller than John— but then again, who wasn't—with a head of wavy light brown hair that was two steps away from being curly. Whatever bollocks Sherlock had been spouting off about bohemian skirts was nine kilometers off the mark. She wore a plain pair of blue jeans—the skinny kind that hugged the legs—and a plain orange t-shirt. Neither of which did much to hide the fact that this was a fit woman. And a normal one for that matter. She was casual. Looked exactly how you'd expect an average person to look after picking up the groceries. Only odd thing about her was that she was a little tanned for London but then a week long vacation could do that. Beyond that her skin was clear, if not a little peaches and cream. Not out of your mind attractive but pretty and normal and living down the stairs.

"Hullo," she said, her hands in her pockets. "Hope I'm not interrupting."

On the couch Sherlock snorted but John quickly spoke over him.

"No! Not at all. Basement flat, right? We just got in but belated welcome to the building."

She laughed, rocking back on her heels.

"That's me. I was planning on coming by and introducing myself once I'd got myself together in some manner. The place is still in a state and Mrs. Hudson said you boys were just back from a trip so I thought I'd wait a bit."

"A trip. Right," John said quickly, throwing a quick glance a Sherlock.

"Have you seen her? Mrs. Hudson, that is. Just came back from the grocers and my code isn't working for the flat."

"Uh, just left actually. Said she was popping out for a bit. I'm not sure when she'll be back. You're welcome to come in for a bit. Just put the kettle on."

"Oh. Thank you but I've left all my things in front of my door and there's milk and a thing of ice cream and I wouldn't want to impose."

"It's full," Sherlock said from the couch, newspaper still up, covering his face.

"What?" John said.

"The refrigerator. Our refrigerator. It's full."

"Oh! No I wasn't," she started, waving a hand in front of her face.

"Ignore him," John said, holding up a hand. "He's a git. Though I would have offered to let you borrow it but he is right."

"Oh. Thank you," she smiled. Her teeth were very white and very straight.

"Well it's not any good, so no need for thanks. I can call Mrs. Hudson for you though, see if she can pop back in."

She shook her head. "That's alright, I have her number. I'll give her a buzz. I'm Wen, by the way. Wen Cleary." She held her hand out.

John smiled, taking her hand. She gave a good solid handshake. That was nice.

"John. John Watson. And that bloke over there being rude is—"

"Sherlock Holmes," she finished for him. "Mrs. Hudson told me about your blog. Said it might give me an idea of what I've moved next to."

"Well, just in case it didn't come across while you were reading, he is a royal pain in the ass and is rude to everyone, so take none of what he'll say in the near future personally." John waved a hand in Sherlock's direction and watched her eyes look over to the git on the couch.

"Well, nice to meet you John Watson," she said after a moment. "I'll probably pop by in a bit for a proper hello when there is no ice cream melting on my front step."

"I'll look forward to it, Wen," John smiled. God she was so normal. The ice cream was probably vanilla! "Is Wen short for Gw—"

"Anwen." Sherlock folded the newspaper he had been holding dramatically and threw it to the side. "Short for Anwen."

John's eyes darted from Sherlock-I'm-A-Show-Off-Holmes to the woman standing wide eyed at the door.

"Oh! Did Mrs. Hudson tell you boys?" she asked after blinking a few times.

"No, actually… She hadn't," John said.

"Wen. Welsh. A common ending to feminine names. Gwen's too short. No one would shorten it from Gwen to Wen—already sounds too similar anyway. Which leaves us about twenty –wen ending names that aren't too archaic. Anwen. Welsh. Not completely uncommon but not too obscure. Not a family name from your father's side. From your mother's side? Not sure. Whether it was or not doesn't matter because it was your mother who picked the name for you. Your father probably had picked out your elder brother's name and after his son was named—Well. So your mother named you. Anwen—Similar to Anwylyd—a term of endearment. Did your mother have a Welsh nanny growing up?" Sherlock finished his tirade by standing up and smiling that cheeky smile he had when he knew he'd won. What game was being played, John never knew but well… that was par for the course, wasn't it?

"Yes."

John looked back at Wen and found her pursing her lips, eyes slightly squinted as if she was trying to see through Sherlock. She wasn't standing straight anymore but leaning against the doorframe.

"Yes, she did. She called my mother Anwylyd." She paused for a moment. "How'd you do that?" she asked, looking at Sherlock. She turned to John. "How'd he do that?"

John shrugged and watched the woman take in Sherlock's tatty blue robe and his disheveled pajamas. There wasn't any judgment radiating off of her. No disgust like Donovan or instantaneous adoration. It was a strange look and it reminded him of something.

"I deduce, Ms. Cleary. I make observations of the world around me, and then deduce the cause or result of those observations. In other words, I engage with my world, not blunder about wildly with a blindfold like the rest of you seem content with doing."

"What he means to say…" John started, chasing the end of Sherlock's usual bit of cockiness with what he hoped would be a placating cover up. But when he looked back at Wen he stopped.

He recognized it—that look. It was the look of a student (a teacher?) faced with an essay. A terribly long essay that needed to be written. She was looking at Sherlock like he was the book she had to write about. Like she was trying to find the meaning or over arching theme of the story, but more than that—

She turned to John (who for a moment noticed that she had a rather delicate nose) and deadpanned. "Does it ever turn off?"

She looked like she was trying to find out why that theme or meaning was actually important—why it mattered.

Suddenly, her hands were covering her mouth. "Oh. Oh wow. That was… well… that was rude," she said as Sherlock's head snapped in their direction.

John laughed. "No, don't worry about it. He's already outdone most of the population when it comes to being rude."

"Well," she said, taking a step out the doorway, "I'll just go give Mrs. Hudson a ring, then. Right… So. See you."

She waved and turned, heading back down the stairs. John watched her fish her mobile out of her back pocket before he closed the door and turned back to Sherlock.

"Well. I'm glad you warned me," John said, heading back to the kitchen, forcing himself not to smile. "Really… that was awful. Practically pushed herself right in. Thought I might trip over her bohemian skirt. And did you see those beaded shoes?"

"Oh shut up," Sherlock said, sitting back down and picking up his violin. "Gloating doesn't suit you, John. And it is no where near as flattering as you seem to think. She had four such skirts in her closet and nine pairs of beaded flats. Just because she had the sense not to wear them while picking up her milk…"

"Don't sulk, Sherlock," John said, getting out a mug for himself and placing a tea bag and some sugar at the bottom. "Everyone has to be wrong sometimes. Even you."

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat and had just gotten into position to begin playing again when the kettle went off.

"I think I'll take a cup." He looked at John and gave a little smile. "Strong."

And that was the last thing he said before he was at it again. It wasn't nearly as torturous to listen to as it had been previously; more like his standard hacking at the violin neck instead of screeching and wailing. John took out the second mug. Lucky Wen Cleary. She had bored Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

_**Ending Author's Note:**_

_So, what did we think? Not much of Wen this chapter but the next chapter has a ton of her. Do we like what we see so far? I hope so!_

_If you enjoyed this or thought something was interesting or saw a mistake, please leave a review! Reviews are the best motivation for fanfiction writers!_

_Quick note: The title of this story comes from Chopin's Ballade #3 in A Flat. Its a great piece! I highly recommend it!_

_-Cherry Fingertips_


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